Chapter 8 - Abelard

Abelard awoke in his room in the Halfling village of Hopswych's Humble House Inn nearly smothered in pillows and blankets. After days, weeks?, of sleeping on the hard floors of Twinkleblink's Tower of Terror, the young Half Elf was not going to pretend that it felt weird. Blissfully, wonderfully, weird.

It also dawned on Abelard what had woken him up. It wasn't the silence of a night attack, a scrape of movement around a corner... It was.... Bacon? Was that Pancakes? The whole room smelled like breakfast! Did that Innkeeper, the Zarzar fellow, pipe the kitchen cooking straight into every room?

Abelard sniffed towards the floor vent providing warm air into the room... By the Gods, he did! Quite a brilliant way to keep the upstairs rooms warm, actually... As long as the chef didn't burn anything. "But", Abelard thought with a chuckle, "This being Hopswych... Any chef who burnt food was probably run out of town by nightfall!"

Abelard rolled back over, fully intent on getting the most out of every minute of the bed's softness. But, while his head was fully on board with this sleep till noon plan, his stomach.... His stomach Wanted Food!

Grumbling, Abelard flung off the covers. His grumbles lasted until his feet touched the floor. Not the cold stone tower floor, but oven-warmed wood. Halflings, Abelard decided, had perfected the defense of keeping people so happy that they couldn't get angry enough to cause harm. Tossing on his gear, Abelard made his way below to the dining room, stomach grumbling as he went.

Innkeep Zarzar Plumbottom greeted him before his feet even reached the bottom of the stairs, "Good morning, my friend. Welcome to your first, and I am sure not last, meal at our little Humble House Inn! Please, young Abelard, Eat. Eat to your hearts content... And then eat some more!", the plump Halfling belted out with a jovial bark. "Please. Eat!", he continued as Margo, Zarzar's wife and partner, handed Abelard a plate and nearly dragged him over to the buffet table.

For a moment Abelard just stood and stared at the vast mountain of food before him. There as no way, simply no way, that the guests of the Inn could possibly eat all this. Abelard wondered if the entire village could eat this much food! Pancakes, Sausage, Bacon, eggs... all went on to the young Half Elf's plate in mere moments, and Abelard found himself at the end of the buffet table, staring at his heaped full plate and wondering what had just happened.

But before he could contemplate his actions, he was whisked away to a chair and syrup, butter, cream, fresh berries...

Things just kept coming... Item after item. As if Zarzar and Margo believe that his food needed to eat too! Not wanting to disappoint his hosts, Abelard wrapped some Bacon and Sausage into a pancake, dipped it into the sauce Zarzar gestured wildly that Abelard simply MUST use, and took a small bite.

*

Some short time later, Abelard seemed to come out of his ravenous food driven coma to see a sea of empty plates piled before him, and a smiling Margo cleaning off the table. "Did I just... ", "Was that?", Abelard sputtered as he stood up, his fully belly answering the unasked question. Yes he had, indeed, ate it all.

Abelard headed back over to the Front desk of the Inn, where an always smiling Zarzar was still seated, offering greetings and hails to everyone he saw. Reminded by his full belly of what he had planned on looking into today, he called to the Inn keep. "Blessings to you and you're fine, fine beds, sir. And that Breakfast! I have not slept or ate this well since.... Well... I don't think I've Ever slept or ate this well!"

"What, that?" Zarzar said with a laugh and a motion towards the still heaped plates of available food. "That's just Second Breakfast. Just you wait for Brunch, lad. Now Brunch is an honest meal!"

Abelard just shook his head with a smile, realizing that the largest plate of food he'd eaten in years was naught but a snack as far as Halflings were concerned. No wonder they stayed so short... The food weighted them down!

"Mr. Plumbottom, sir. I was wondering if you might direct me to where the guards around here practice and spar? I was a part time protector myself, before travels led us here. I'd love to find a place to get some practice in and get back into... the swing of things. If you forgive the pun?", he says with a smile.

Zarzar Plumbottom blinked, snorted, then held his sides as his rather impressive paunch began to jiggle. He suddenly threw his head back and guffawed out loud, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes.

”The... the SWING of things!!! Hoooo! Margo, did ya hear what he said? The sw... the sw... HAHAHA! Oh, I just can’t.”

Other patrons around the inn start chuckling and laughing too, many not even sure why. The Innkeep’s easy laughter just seems to spread naturally. One of the local halfling lads steps up with a grin and helps out while Zarzar recovers.

”Over by the West Gate, ye’ll find the Hedge-Gates in their home at West Hills. They’re the guardians of the hedge. Fiercest pruning shears in all Hopswych!”

Zarzar howls, his laughter redoubled, red-faced with mirth and jiggling with laughter as he sinks to his knees and starts slapping the floorboards. ”No more! I give up! I... I... he said SWING! BAHAHAHAHA!”

Abelard thanked the young halfling for his assistance and, after waiting a moment to make sure Zarzar was ok, nods to the still laughing Innkeeper. "Thank you again, for the hospitality and food, sir. A glorious Good Morning to you!" He then headed out the door and off towards the West gate, hopeful the moment spelled an auspicious start to his endeavor, and chuckling "swing of things..." under his breath.

The young Warlock stepped through the big round door of Humble House Inn, jolliness echoing behind him as Margo Plumbottom finished clearing away second breakfast and began calling for the kitchen to prepare for Brunch.

Out from under the hill, the warm midsummer sun gleamed brightly on the half-elf, and Abelard found himself squinting a bit in the brightness of it. Nevertheless, he easily spotted the town's West Gate not 50 yards away from the inn's front stoop. A hill rose to each side of the dirt road, with quaint little gables and chimneys poking out of them. The doors to both were painted a clean white, with a monogrammed "WH" emblazoned on each of them, to reinforce that they come as a pair. A small storage shed had been set up by the entrance to the northern of the two hills.

Abelard made his way between the hills towards the West gates, looking for signs of a practice ground or marshaled troops and, seeing neither, turns towards the Southern of the two West Hills homes where he noticed movement outside. Perhaps they would know where the practice grounds were found?

The clean, woody aroma of cedar hit Abelard as he got closer. Perched on a three-legged stool on the porch of West Hills, South was an older halfling with curly steel grey hair and liquid brown eyes behind a pair of spectacles. His clothes were tidy and neat, without being showy, and he wore a blue-striped apron that seems to be adorned here and there with herbaceous clippings and leaves. The elder Halfling was seated carefully working on a potted cedar, perhaps only a foot tall, but with the appearance of an ancient, fully grown tree. The old halfling did not seem to notice Abelard's approach, as he was ever so attentively pruning the miniature cedar with shears the size of a short sword.

Startled by the sheer incongruity of a Halfling devoting such time and care to a single, tiny, tree, while seated almost in the shadow of the massive Hedge of Hopswych and Morlanthir Woods beyond, Abelard paused to watch for a bit. First out of morbid curiosity, but soon enough he is surprised to find himself looking for indications of what the Halfling’s next cut might be... and enjoying he few times he actually guessed rightly. Near silently, Abelard edged closer, little by little, not saying anything, not wanting to interrupt the man's efforts, but just watching, eager to see if he guessed right about the next tiny fault to get the shears.

So closely did he attend the minor movements of the shears, that it was Abelard himself that was startled, when, not unkindly, but without looking up or offering any semblance of social graces, the old halfling said out loud, "If you're looking for someone to open the gate and let you out, Chopine is on watch now." Abelard's senses, keened by his fey ancestry, picked up a familiarly awkward intonation. A pattern of speaking that oft gets passed down from one generation to the next. Abelard suddenly realized he was staring at his good friend and travelling companion Buskin's father.

It had certainly been a bit of a whirlwind coming out of the Cursed Clockwork Cosmotorium and finding the Hopswych villagers there, but the Warlock seemed to remember leaning down to shake hands with this old halfling he had been introduced to just yesterday. But then the prototype Keg of Elemental Ale had come out, their Druid friend Trillium had turned into a blue mastiff and gave rides to the children, and it all sort of got blissfully hazy from there.

Dang it. What was Buskin's father's name again?

”Ah, yes. Out... Indeed.", began Abelard. "Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Hedgegate, sir. I did not mean to interrupt you. I was just admiring your attention to detail. Fine work... Calming.... And, after the last week's adventures, we could all sure do with a bit more calm.”

”Could you tell me, sir. Who would one talk to about... uh... requesting some Hedge guard smack me around a bit?” With a quick chuckle, he continued.

”I, uh. I know what I sound like. But I’m not crazy... My request does serve a purpose, I promise!”

The oddity of the request caused the old halfling to pause, mid-snip. Buskin's father at last turned to look at Abelard, peering at the half-elf over his spectacles while an errant twig of cedar poked out of his greying curls."Chancla dear," the aging gardener called out, still eying Abelard over his thick glasses, "There's a tall-folk gentleman here asking for you. Seems familiar. Pale type. Inquisitive fellow. Wants to get beat."

The round white door to West Hills, South opened. Standing in the cool shadow of the halfling hole (that summer sun really is quite bright) appeared Buskin's mother, Chancla Hedge-Gate, the Half Elf's fuzzy memories of the previous evening offered. Chancla seemed to be everything Buskin is not. Sturdy, strong, and clearly cunning as she sized Abelard up in a single glance of her light amber eyes. Her stance, open but ready, revealed military discipline, and her dark brown hair was bobbed short, as if to preclude it from becoming a disadvantage in combat. The warlock remembered seeing this woman yesterday ordering the guard about the base of the tower on their exit.

"Abelard, if I remember correctly," Chancla asserted. She held out a platter with little white circles adorned with crystalized honey and specks of black and purple. "I was just making a snack before the Summerlight Faire begins. Would you like to try them?"

Belly still seemingly full to bursting, Abelard nonetheless knew when a yes was expected. "I may be slow at times, but I've learned better than to turn down the food a Hedgegate suggests! I would be delighted to try some... Chancla, was it? Forgive me, but last night is quite a warm blur.", he replied.

The offered traditional midsummer delicacy was served cold, but bursting with flavor. Salty, sour, savory, sweet, and spicy... all in a single mouthful. It served as an apropos reminder that small bundles can deliver powerful results. Abelard savored the simply complex series of sensations as he slowly chewed. "Chancla Hedge-Gate, Captain of the Hedge-Guard, at your service, young man. You'll have met Buskin's father, Balmoral here. Did you remember to be polite and say hello to our guest this time, dear?"

Balmoral had returned to his miniature potted cedar and did not look up. "Hello," he chimed in, belatedly, waving the shears absently over one shoulder.

Meanwhile Chancla, eyes never leaving the Half Elf, had been quietly, expertly, assessing Abelard's movements, the tone of his musculature, his awareness of his surroundings. "So you'll be looking to spar then." she surmised succinctly.

Abelard swallowed, ceasing communing with the flavor gods to nod to Chancla. "Yes. Well. Sort of. I would love to spar. I could use some work on my basics. I'm afraid my fighting style has been one of chaotic urgency of late. Joru... Ah, my former trainer, would be embarrassed at my stance, I am sure."

"But I had a bit more... colorful an ask. In addition to martial skills, I am a practitioner of some small magics. The problem is... well... I tend to get hit a lot, which breaks my concentration."

Knowing his ask is an odd one, Abelard hoped his explanation was getting through. "I was hoping... um... perhaps some hedge guard would have time to try to distract me while I concentrated on an enchantment? And, by distract, I mean rough me up a bit. This will allow me to work on my defensive stance and my control and focus."

The captain of the Hedge-Guard nodded in understanding. "You've come to the right place, Abelard. I can spare my boy Brogan for an hour before his watch during the Summerlight Faire begins. Will that be enough time for you?"

"I thank you. That would be excellent. I truly appreciate you entertaining my request." Abelard turned to include Balmoral as he continued. "And I would be remiss not to say. I do not know how much you have heard of our experiences in the Cosmotorium, but it is unlikely ANY of us would have survived without the quick thinking, knowledge, and powerful magics of your boy Buskin. He saved my life more than once, for certain. So, for that as well, I thank you for a man well raised, Mr. & Mrs. Hedgegate!"

Chancla Hedge-Gate nods at Abelard with a smile. "It will give Brogan a good target to blow some steam off," she says, then leans over and gives a whistle like a whip-poor-will over towards the hill on the northern side of the West Gate. "Brogan! BROOOOGAN! Come here and give this friend of your brother's a hand. On the double!"

Meanwhile, Buskin's father, Balmoral, clucked critically at his cedar tree. He peered at his enormous shears, as if half suspecting them to be dull. Brushing some microscopic piece of debris from them, he shrugged and returns to work. "Cosmotorium indeed. Impetuous fool of a boy getting himself into all kinds of trouble. Calling rocks down on his head from the sky. Making good folk's clothes disappear. Gallivanting off with big city wizards. Next thing you know he'll be silly enough to wander into the Shadowrill or some such nonsense. Didn't get that from my side of the family, I can tell you that!"

Moments later, a thickly built young halfling fellow trotted over from the North hill. There was some resemblance to Buskin-- the peaches and cream complexion with ruddy pink on the apples of his cheeks, and black curly hair-- clearly a younger, sturdier, beefier brother who truly took after his mother.

"You're starting shift early," Chancla explained, and clearly Brogan knew better than to give his mother any guff. "Spar with this young man for an hour," she instructs, and Brogan looked Abelard up and down with a raised eyebrow, cracking his knuckles as if he expects to make short work of the warlock. "Rough him up a bit, he says. But be careful," Chancla warned to her son. "He's your brother's friend."

Brogan looked up at the half-elf with a lop-sided grin gracing his square jaw. "The lads at the Frothy Fox will never believe it. Buskin has friends now?"

Abelard's new sparring partner beckoned the Warlock to follow him down past the family estate, closer to the banks of the River Lustra that formed the southern boundary of Hopswych. "Well. Let's see what the big city Elf can do!", he challenged in obvious mock insult.

Abelard nodded his thanks to the wonderfully odd Hedgegate parents, and swung in beside Brogan. ”I thank you for your time, Chancla... Balmoral. Come, Brogan. I look forward to seeing what a Hedgegate can do. And after, a pint or to at this Frothy Fox will do quite nicely, I would think. On me.” Abelard chuckles. ”Can’t be too often city folk offer to buy you a drink if you beat them up for a bit!”

As they made their way to the bank of the river, Abelard explained to Brogan what he is looking to do and why. Brogan's task was to break Abelard's concentration as often as he can. When he does break it, they would pause and reset. Abelard, in turn, would be working on defense and not striking, concentrating on a summoned handful of Dancing Lights and using them to dart in at any openings in Brogans defenses he finds.

Brogan's face visibly animated at the promise of a round or two at the Frothy Fox, but then he sighed. "I've got to begin my patrol of the hedge in an hour," the husky halfling explains. "I drew the short straw, so I'm on duty while everyone else has fun at the Summerlight Faire. But if you're still sober when I get off shift, I'll meet ya at the Fox for sure!"

Abelard's sparring partner stopped at one of the halfling-sized broad-bottomed canoes pulled up on the shore of the Lustra, in a small landing between the protective hedge and the stone shield-walls, that appeared to be a form of defense from the river. Taking in the placement, Abelard imagined that anyone trying to come ashore from the Lustra while being targeted by halfling slings from behind those shield walls would have a tough time of it. Brogan scooped up a short oar, swung it around to feel the heft of it, and nodded with satisfaction.

When the Warlock first manifested the glowing magical lights, it clearly startled his unexpecting opponent. The color blanched momentarily from his round, ruddy cheeks. "Cooooo... well piss on my leg and tell me it's raining. You really ARE my brother's friend. All that magic mumbo-jumbo gives me the willies. But okay. Have at it then!"

In spite of his initial trepidation, Brogan quickly found the game in the interaction. He batted at the dancing lights with his oar, lunging at Abelard's knees and every once in a while landing a blow on the warlocks thighs and hips. Once Brogan even came quite close to tripping the half-elf up, the blade of the oar darting in between Abelard's legs... but the lithe Half Elf lightly and fluidly stepped right up on to the oar as it jabbed towards him, and, deciding to add some dramatic flair did a quick back flip off of the make-shift weapon to land gracefully on his feet. Unfortunately, while elegantly acrobatic, Abelard realized too late that paying attention to his spin and landing had cost him his concentration and the dancing lights blinked out.

***

“Brogan”, Abelard asked sometime later during a quick break between bouts to grab a drink of water and shake out some bruises, “Did Chancla, err your mother. Did she pass along our concerns about the Bloody Grin Orcs seeming to be amassing again?”

Brogan regarded Abelard with a bit of worry when the Warlock brought up the Bloody Grin during their sparring session. "Chukka, my sister, mentioned you all had said something about the orcs," said the sturdy halfling in response. He then hefted his trust oar and, tapping on Abelard’s shield, motioned for the young Half Elf to ready himself again. Abelard summoned the Dancing Lights and stepped back to the open spot to let Brogan start beating him again.

"To be fair,”, said Brogan as he began with a simple left/right combo, thudding off of Abelard’s quickly adjusted shield. “It's the reason we pay such high taxes to Count St. Germaine in Lusterlin. So he can keep an army of Falcon Wings, and Knights Chevalier, and Pikes to repel incursions from the Below. Our little hedge is there to make it... more convenient for ill-doers to go around. But the hedge wouldn't hold up more than ten minutes to a marauding band of the Bloody Grin if it was only up to us. It's a good thing we have the elves of the Shadowrill on our side. That's a scary place, all right. But it's scarier still to orcs and drow and the like what don't belong up here in the sunlight. As long as the alliance holds true, I expect we won't see many orcs make it far from the borders of the Shroud."

Abelard nodded, blocking Brogans swing and thrusting forward with a globe of light in return. ”Our friends in Lusterlin warned us that the Falcon Wings have been spotting significant Bloody Grin camps. If the Guard have means of scouting, or sending to Lusterlin or Mor’Lanthir for aid. Now might be the time to do so!”

He then grunts as an oar strike lands on his shoulder while he was distracted speaking. ”Oof! I’ll be feeling that one for a day or two. Oof! I think my friends and I were talking of heading into Morlanthir to follow up some promises made. Maybe we could travel with any messenger you might send?”

"You mean you're just, haha..." The small but tough halfling laughed nervously as he processed what Abelard just said. Dancing lights whizzed past Brogan while he seemed stunned for a moment. "You mean you're just going to follow the Count's northern road THROUGH the Shadowrill, on your way to Truesilver Forge on the other side, right? Sure, the coaching inns along the way are a bit run down, but most of them are safe enough to see you through, I hear."

Buskin's sibling is not particularly obtuse, and he could tell from the half-elf's face rather quickly that Abelard did not, in fact, mean the party was going through. "Ohhhh. No, no no, no, no, you obviously haven't heard. But of course, how could you? Buskin says you're from Fjordheim, not around here. The Shadowrill... there's something not quite right with that forest. It's too old. It's seen too much. And it holds a grudge from one generation to the next. It only puts up with the elves because they take care of it. You don't even want to know the stories I could tell you about that place. The Three Ladies of the Wood. The Hollow Man, who knocks at midnight to take your head. The dark soil that drinks blood and magic. Or the dead who come back, rabid and wild..." Brogan shivered, despite the warmth of the day and the sweat of their exertion, clearly spooked at his own words. "Maybe just, you know... forget about the Shadowrill and find a nice girl and a cottage on the tall-folk side. Settle down and enjoy life. There's worse ways to spend one's time."

Abelard nodded, sagely, at Brogans warnings. "There are things you want and things you must... I’m afraid this will wind up a must. Three times , by three different sources, we have been asked to travel to Mor’Lanthir. Isn’t there something about the Fey and threes?"

Abelard paused his defenses, lowering his shield to focus on the conversation momentarily. "I'll gladly take any information you can provide about what to expect. What to do and not do. But I fear we are bound for the Forest, despite what any of us might want.”

“But Hopswych... The village needs to see to it’s own defenses. Dark days lie ahead. The Warmage of Lusterlin herself is who warned us of the Orcs stirring and amassing. She would not do so unless the danger was real. Have you means of scouting the below? Or Wide? Of asking for Lusterlin to send forces before, not After, you are assaulted? Of getting help from Mor’Lanthir? What can we do to help?"

There was a brief pause, as Abelard decided whether to add further... "Is... Is there anyone who knows the workings of Twinkleblink’s automatons? That could control them? We did away with a number of them, but there were a lot more still there... And they were most formidable. Is there anyone in town who knows the secrets of how to control them that can set them to guard the hedge? I absolutely loath those things. But perhaps they could be used for good to make up for all that evil?"

For all of Brogan's sturdy salt-of-the-earth qualities, adventuring beyond the hedge does not seem to be one of them. Abelard's insistence on heading into Môr’lanthir even after being warned of its dangers is met with an unabashedly bewildered and worried look on Brogan's face. And the idea of scouting into the Below--going there on purpose--clearly does not compute for the homey

"Cooo...”, Brogan started in a deluge of details, none of them painting a positive picture, “the War Mage of Lusterlin herself needs your help? I thought Buskin was just washing their dishes and reading her books over there. Look, I don't want to disappoint you, but my Ma... my brothers and sisters... we're all Hopswych has got when it comes to our own defense. We've got the hedge that my Da keeps green and tidy, and the Lapine Guardian topiaries to scare off bandits and whatnot, and my family has a dozen or so swords and short spears in the cellar if we were to need them. But the town has always relied on the protection of Count St. Germaine's forces. Folk here work hard enough to pay his taxes, you should hear them grumble about contributing to support my family's work on the hedge, too."

"If the War Mage herself already knows there's Bloody Grin on the prowl, shouldn't that mean the Falcon Wings are already after them? Shouldn't the Count have already called on the old alliance and told the elves of Môr’lanthir already? I'm just a simple lad that walks around a hedge every day, I'm no substitute for War Mages and Counts and Falcon Wings and the Crone Mother."

Having worked himself up into a bit of a worry, Brogan latches on to Abelard's suggestion about the clockworks. "Do you think that would work? None of us here know much about clockworks... always seemed like more of a gnomish hobby. Say... you know a gnome, don't you? Isn't that bard Zigras with you all? Can she reset the clockworks to help defend us?"

There was a visible shudder as Abelard contemplated asking Zigras to look AT clockwork minions instead of away. But... Wasn't there some saying about Necessity and Invention? It probably always ended well in the stories at least.

"So Hopswych doesn't call to Lusterlin for support? They just hope that they get it? Well, let’s hope the Lusterlin plans involve stopping Orcs before they can get this far then. That would be the best all around. And.. Yes... I guess I best talk to Zigras about those metal contraptions and see what she can figure out."

"But enough of that... Just make sure your Hedge, and Guard, keep their eyes open. I’m sure Lusterlin and Mor’Lanthir have the rest under control.”, Abelard replied convincingly. “I need to focus on... er... my focus. Batter up!", he finishes as he hefts his shield back into place, and summons the globes of light spinning around himself, one darting in to 'tap' Brogan on the forehead. "First to 5 touches buys a pint tomorrow!"

Brogan kind of shrugged and as he returned to sparring, he suggested, "You could always talk to Mayor Pembo Proudtoe. He's the one responsible for all the politics of working with the tall-folk side and relations with Lusterlin and all. I don't know much about it, but you can find Pembo at the Town Hall when he's working. Or at his home in DaisyCrown when he's got his feet up."

A Pint on the line, the Sparring speeds up, thrusting oar and darting globes fly and, the first friendly fierce flurry sees Brogan land two strikes and Abelard three light pokes of his own.

The next flurry saw Abelard score one more globule plink to the Halflings chest and successfully defend all of Brogans strikes. With only one last touch needed, Abelard, with a smile, switched to defense and the occasional well telescoped ‘attempt’ at a strike.

Abelard continued to focus on his defense, but purposefully failed to land the final touch, quite happy to allow Brogan to earn the point.... and Pint.

It takes Brogan but a few more traded flurries before he, finally, manages the final point, with a meaty thwack to his Half Elf opponents hip, and the halfling beamed with pride--completely unaware that Abelard allowed him to win.

"Ha HA! That's what it's like going up against a Hedge-Gate! Grrrrr!", Brogan flexed a diminutively menacing pose once the sparring is completed. "I'll be taking you up on that pint at the Frothy Fox after my shift is done," he said proudly.

”Well fought, my friend. Thank you, again, for your time. This felt good!”, Abelard answered as he rolled his painful shoulder and rubbed a bruised hip. ”Mostly”, he says with a chuckle.

”Thank you. I needed that. And the pint is yours, gladly! Thank you, Brogan. Truly.”, the young Warlock continued, as he clasped hands and bid Brogan a safe shift. “That Pint’ll be waiting for you, my friend.”

Brogan paused, oar on his shoulder, glanced at the sun--remarkable how he can look directly at it like that-- and announces it was time for him to start his patrol. "That was fun," the halfling said with a smile, as he seemingly idly tossed the oar back towards the canoe. As haphazard as the toss had looked, the oar lands exactly where Brogan had picked it up. "If you want to do it again, I'm at West Hills, North. Me and my brothers got a bit too rambunctious to stay under the same hill as our parents. Come for lunch and we'll do this again!"

Abelard smiled as he massages his sore limbs and nodded. "Oh how I hated sparring practice as a child. That was excellent, my friend. I thank you for your time... and abuse." The half Elf made a mental note to be sure some festival food makes it's way out to the gates to poor Brogan short straw. "I'll look forward to that pint!"

Abelard waved his goodbyes, with a bit of a grimace as his shoulder rotated that stirred a chuckle from the halfling, and headed back towards the village, being sure to swing by the Hedgegates and thank them again. "That's two sons met, and two sons liked. You might be on to something here!", he says with a smile and a half bow to the still seated and staring at the same small tree Balmoral.

Abelard then turned to head back to the Inn, eager for a bath, a drink, and a bite to eat. What is it about Hopswych that makes him feel hungry all the time?!?!

In the distance, from the north, the first light notes of festive music began to play.

****

As Abelard was turning to leave, he again paused watching Balmoral. And it dawned on the Half Elf, who was more bookworm than warrior in his youth, that there was more than one way to work on focus. "Um.. Balmoral.... Mr. Hedgegate, sir.... Do you teach?"

He quickly rushed on. "I mean... you seem so focused, yet peaceful. And I am betting peace will not be the easiest of targets to hit as my travels continue. May I watch a little longer? I would be honored if you would tell me more about what you do. Why so much effort and attention to that one little tree when the world around you is, quite literally, almost nothing but trees and bush?"

Balmoral Hedge-Gate continued to silently shape a cedar branch smaller than Abelard’s forefinger. Admittedly, it looked already perfect, as if it had taken a century to grow that way naturally. And just about the time when Abelard thinks Buskin’s father may not have heard him, Balmoral replied, peering, again, at Abelard over his spectacles. ”Brogan put you through your paces, I see. Good for him. Kids your age need to burn all that excess energy. That’s why I leave all the military work to Chancla and the young ones.”

Balmoral removed his spectacles, absently polishing the lenses with a dusty corner of his blue-striped apron. It’s an even bet whether they emerge less or more clean from the process. The halfling gardener looked at Abelard again —really looks at him—and then says simply, “I don’t think you’d really be interested for long in what I do, son. It requires prolonged concentration.”

Abelard chuckled wryly at the flat accuracy of the elder Halfling's words. ”You are not wrong in your assumption, Mr. Hedgegate, sir. It is lack of concentration that brought me out here to ask the Hedge Guard’s assistance. I am seeking advice and training on how to maintain my focus... my concentration. In peaceful and also chaotic times.”

”And yet, my first thought for how to work on focus was to leap in and fight. There’s every chance that you are correct. That I am unsuited to your practice. But... I’ve been told before that I was unsuited for something and should just give up... and I proved them wrong then.”

Abelard’s tone grew even more serious, and he matched gazes, briefly, with Balmoral. ”What we do... The road we must take... If I cannot reign in my focus when it matters... People will die, Mr. Hedgegate. My Friends could die. Your...”, and he stops himself, not willing to put the onus onto the peaceful man before him.

”People Will die if I don’t learn better control. I’m not saying you are the answer, sir. I’m not saying this is guaranteed. But I am out of my depth, and grasping for control. And you, Mr. Hedgegate, seem to be a mountain of focus and control. At the very least, sitting near you and watching your work brings peace to my mind.”

Again that wry Abelard chuckle emerged. ”And do trust me when I tell you that peace of mind is.... not the normal in this head of mine. I’m willing to pay to learn. By the Whorl, I’m willing to pay just to watch, if that is alright by you, sir.”

Suddenly realizing how long he’s been talking while Balmoral just watched him, and what he’s been saying, Abelard again grew self conscious. ”I.... Sorry. Wow... Sorry.”, he quickly faded off, and waited to see if he will be sent back to town or allowed to stay.

Balmoral listened, reactionless, to Abelard's monologue while he carefully examined the tiny branch he had been working on since before Abelard showed up. The gardener turns the potted tree this way and that, assessing the branch from every angle until he is satisfied that it is just so. The silence only exacerbated Abelard's need to continue talking.

Then, when Abelard had concluded his speech, Buskin's father picked up his short-sword-sized shears, and, without hesitation, snipped the tiny branch clean off at the trunk. Hours worth of work, more likely days or weeks or months or possibly years, fall to the ground with the rest of the clippings.

"It's the nature of being alive that we all die, son," Balmoral said calmly, bending in to observe his work as he applied a bit of serum to the small wound on the trunk. "Avoiding death is a dark and nasty business. Unnatural. If you're afraid of death, you've already lost. The real point of it all is timing. Making something of the life you do live, and then exiting with purpose. Ahhh, there you are."

The gardener beckoned Abelard closer to take a look at the small void left behind by the recently pruned branch. There, previously hidden from the light and only now revealed, was a pale bud of new growth. It's not difficult for the half-elf to see it drinking in the now-unobstructed midsummer sunlight.

"A year and a day," Balmoral acquiesces. "If you're going to watch... if you're going to learn how to really focus on what matters... you need to see the whole show. To absorb the ups and the downs and the renewals. Every season of the cycle. It's the only way to truly understand the mystery."

Abelard, having watched in sheer horror as Balmoral took his shears to the limb he had been oh so enjoying the tranquility of watching unfold, is shocked out of his trance by the Halfling's words. "A year and a...?!?!", the all too young Warlock blurted out defeatedly. "I'll be lucky to get the Day before the next calamity falls down upon us... Let alone a Year!"

With a sigh, Abelard's shoulders slumped, "I guess you are correct again, Mr. Hedgegate, sir. There's no way I can set the world aside for a year. But I greatly enjoyed watching you, sir. And will think more on this as we travel. Maybe I can return when.... when.... after... Oh I don't know! I don't think I ever get to 'return' anywhere!"

The Half Elf then stood, dusted himself off, his body reminding him again of the abuse he's taken thus far this morning. "I thank you again, Mr Hedgegate, sir. I'll do everything I can to bring your boy back to you!", he says, dispirited, as he turned to head back to the Inn.

Balmoral returned his appraising, piercing gaze back to Abelard as the half-elf declined and turns to leave. "Farewell, young man. But beware of short cuts. To be sure, there are faster ways to achieve what you want, but the price is far more terrible than your time."

The sound of snipping shears resumed as Abelard walked away. And, with every metallic cut, the Warlock's mind conjured up the face of another Trollansby villager falling to the sword. Bodies of friends and family, littering the ground like so many discarded clippings.

Abelard, body sore but ignored as he waded through memories and the new sting of failing to meet wise Balmoral's standard, returned to the Inn, doing his best to dig himself out of his sudden funk... Something he has never proven exceptionally good at. Eager to soak his wounds in a hot bath...

Those wounds that are physical, and easy to treat, that is.

***